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Images via Hodinkee Look out, folks, because I’m about to wax poetic about this Prospex Diver SPB087 from Seiko, cosigned by the good people at PADI (the Professional Association of Diving Instructions) and emblazoned with their signature blue and red colors on the coin-edge bezel. No watch-related post would be complete without an extended enumeration of technical particulars, so let’s get that out of the way, shall we? The SPB087, like most of the modern Prospex series, takes inspiration from the classic Seiko divers of the 1960s and ‘70s, specifically the 1968 Hi-Beat diver (ref. 6159-7001). The case is stainless steel, with a 44mm diameter, 13.1mm thickness, and 200 meters of water resistance. Inside it is the 6R15 caliber, a 23 jewel in-house movement with a 50 hour power reserve, beating at a solid 21,600 vph (vibrations per hour). The 6R15 features manual winding and hacking seconds capabilities, in addition to Seiko movement mainstays the SPRON 510 mainspring and the Magic Lever self-winding system. If your eyes glazed over while reading the last four sentences, I totally understand. Getting into mechanical watches is an intrinsically geeky fascination, one that can seem absolutely alien to any outsiders unfortunate enough to get caught in conversation with its adherents, which is incidentally the situation you find yourself in right now, dear reader. We few, we happy few, who wish to discuss the ins and outs of handset styles and lug-to-lug distances are a self-selecting bunch of weirdos and, oh no, I’m doing it, aren’t I? Quick, think of something culturally relevant to go on a tangent about. Thanos memes? Too played out. Trade war with China? Too depressing. Jeffrey Epstein being suicided by the Illuminati because he was going to confess to providing our reptilian overlords with young, nubile sex slaves for the purpose of creating saurian-human hybrids? Bingo. Do you think it’s an accident that Epstein spent 6.5 million USD funding the creation of the Program for Evolutionary Dynamics at Harvard University? Do you believe it’s merely by circumstance that Epstein donated a total of 100,000 USD to Bill Richardson’s 2002 and 2006 gubernatorial campaigns in New Mexico, the state which just so happens to be the home of Roswell and Area 51, not to mention Epstein’s own “baby ranch”? I’ll bet dollars to donuts that if you bust out your divining rods and do some dowsing, you’ll find that said ranch is situated right on top of intersecting ley lines. I’m perspiring quite vigorously as I type this, because unspooling a crazed conspiracy theory -- I mean, revealing the truth -- is sweaty business. I can’t help but think about the people on Instagram who only read the first half of this post and remain blissfully ignorant of the feverish madness that followed. I like to think they missed out -RB
Images via albam
Ayo, before you head off to the yard to bust caps in 30-50 feral hogs, you’d better cop a pair of these Fatigue Trousers from albam (available in Bottle Green and Navy), because how are you going to protect your children and/or property without kitting yourself out in the proper attire? Don’t get it twisted: I’m not making light of the scourge of wild swine that afflict the rural citizens of this great nation. I’m just here to get some unearned lulz out of the internet’s dankest memes before they go completely stale and end up relegated to a forgotten entry on knowyourmeme.com, rubbing elbows with the likes of Scumbag Steve and Philosoraptor. I wish I was strong enough to write entire posts focusing on the featured garments. I wish I had the fortitude to churn out solid paragraphs of dry copy, devoid of random deviations. I wish I could give you good people an unadulterated, meme-free look at these albam Fatigue Trousers, but that’s just not the man I am and that’s just not the world we live in. To quote the internet, “We live in a society”, a society under perpetual threat of attack by violent racists, assault rifle wielding sociopaths, and, apparently, hordes of untamed pigs. I fully acknowledge that, in the wake of tragedy, it can be hard to care about pants, regardless of how cool they are. But the tragedies never stop. Something bad is always happening. Isn’t it better to be wearing pants when things go wrong? Especially military-inspired, garment dyed pants that come in dope ass colorways. I hate when shit goes down when I’m not wearing pants and I’m not making an exceptionally poor attempt at a pants-shitting joke. Or at least I’m not trying to. Now is not a time for poop jokes. However, it is a time for pants. All times are times for pants. Okay, maybe just most times. I thought of a bunch of exceptions to that pants rule and I immediately regretted my proclamation, but I don’t want to get bogged down in the minutiae of trouser mores. Or maybe I do. Do you need to wear pants while washing dishes alone? I think not, but reasonable minds can differ. That’s the beauty of living in a pluralistic civilization: we can disagree on the necessity of pants. In fact, we can disagree on just about everything, including, but not limited to, the proper method of deterring 30-50 feral hogs. Sometimes, dear readers, it do be like that -RB
Images via Totokaelo
Goddamn, peeps, I’m about to cop a pair of these Sfesa Elasticated Loafers from Marsèll and stomp around the Earth like a lost member of KISS. I’m not sure if Peter Criss wears slip-on Italian loafers with pumice stone-inspire midsoles, but he probably has a lot of dead skin, so maybe he should consider it. Either that or buy a couple loofahs. Step your exfoliation game up, fam. Protect your epidermis. According to some quick Googleage, The Catman is worth over 2 million dollars, so he can afford to drop 885 USD on a pair of high fashion platform shoes. I’m not saying he should. The man’s not exactly a paragon of sartorial excellence. I don’t know why I’m spending so much time and verbiage shitting on Peter Criss; he’s done nothing to me. Paul Stanley did accuse him of being an antisemite in his memoir, an allegation Criss vigorously denies. I’d prefer not to take sides, but Paul Stanley has always struck me as a humongous douchebag, so I take anything he says with a grain -- nay, a boulder -- of salt. Why can’t I stop talking about KISS? I could be telling you about how Marsèll was founded in 2001 by a trio of siblings (Elisa, Marco, and Roboerto Cima) or how their collections are handmade at their atelier, creating uniquely bold and modern takes on classic shoes and accessories, but instead I’m focusing on a band that famously sells a branded coffin (it’s called the Kiss Kasket, naturally) and wrote the sensuous ballad “Calling Dr. Love”, which features the timeless couplet “So if you please get on your knees / There are no bills, there are no fees”. What a bunch of romantics those boys are! Man, I didn’t know Harvey Weinstein had writing credits on KISS songs. That guy’s a fucking bonafide Renaissance man. Are you cringing? I am. I cringe so often nowadays, muscles I didn’t even know I had are perpetually sore. It’s like the first time you do yoga, except the opposite in nearly every way, unless you happen to be in the same yoga class as Matt Lauer. TIme to buy a Peloton, I guess. Unfortunately, the pedal clips are probably not compatible with these Marsèll loafers. Sorry if that’s a dealbreaker. Fitness is important, but not at the expense of fashion, which is why I hold the entirety of the athleisure movement in such low regard. If there is a devil, I am certain that he wears Lululemon -RB
Images via Kith
Bust out that burner phone, fam, because it’s time to begin an illicit relationship with one of these Kith x FourDii SB-1 Side Bags and may the Lord have mercy on your soul if your main bag finds out. As the old saying goes, Hell hath no fury like a satchel scorned. This seductive little sack features a quick release system, Duraflex clips, and a FIDLOCK magnetic buckle, which are all, I assume, Things That Are Good™. It’s also MOLLE (Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment) system-equipped, meaning you can strap a whole host of useful shit to yourself, and constructed from X-Pac laminated double ripstop fabric, carry industry jargon for lightweight, water repellent, abrasion-resistant badassery. In short, this provocative goomah of a bag can handle whatever you choose to throw at or into it. Just make sure your main bag never catches wind of that one night on that business trip to Denver. You’ve got a good thing going there and it would be a shame to jeopardize it just for a naughty fling with a side bag that comes with additional straps so you can use it as a leg bag or chest rig. I know you. You’re not built for that kind of duplicity. You think you can compartmentalize it all, that no one’s getting hurt. Sure, you’re happy with the main bag, but you want more. It’s not a matter of morality, you tell yourself, it’s a matter of appetite. But soon you’re forgetting what lies you told and to whom. You’re missing dinner dates with the main bag. You’re paying the side bag’s rent. And then comes the fateful day when the side bag tells you the news that changes everything: it’s pregnant. The words send a sharp chill through your entire being, like a bucket of ice water from a painfully outdated ALS Ice Bucket Challenge reference. What are you going to do? What can you do? You can’t kill the side bag. It cost you 230 USD and that’s a shitload of money. You can’t convince it to get an abortion. It’s devoutly religious and believes life begins at conception. You can’t tell your main bag. It’ll leave and take the little coin purses with it. Have I stretched this metaphor as painfully far as it can go? Probably. Should I have stopped about halfway back? Almost certainly. Was it worth it to make everyone, including me, quite uncomfortable? Absofuckinglutely -RB
Images via Railcar Fine Goods
Let’s talk strategy, dear readers: in order to optimize stealth and maximize combat multipliers, we need to equip all the Kyles and Naruto runners with these Ace long sleeve Japanese duck red line selvedge shirts in preparation for the upcoming storming of Area 51. These gorgeous shirts come courtesy of the fine folks over at Railcar Fine Goods and happen to make perfect desert camouflage, which will come in handy when you and your bois hop the fences and begin the assault. The buttons and buttonholes feature lockstitch construction, so even if you break a few threads while clapping them alien cheeks, you don’t have to worry about anything unraveling, except for your increasingly fragile sense of reality. Now, if you thought for a second that I was going to miss out on this soon-to-be fucked out meme, you’re a blithering idiot, because I’ve been senselessly shoehorning specious xenomorph conspiracy theories into this ostensible fashion blog since day one. Finally, a meme has trended its way right into my wheelhouse and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss this fleeting opportunity. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for dropping the ball on the whole “They did surgery on a grape” thing, although I did recently learn that the machine that did surgery on a grape (Intuitive Surgical Inc.’s da Vinci Surgical System) also did surgeries on people and a few of them went very fucking poorly, prompting a product recall and even a “Warning Letter” from the FDA. Indeed, while the specific medical and moral implications of using robotic technologies to perform minimally invasive surgeries are well above my pay-grade and significantly out of the scope of this website, it doesn’t take a certified bioethicist to know that machines are merely tools. They have no foibles, no insecurities, and no foolhardy desires to raid secretive military bases in order to engage in sexual activity with extraterrestrials. Man, this is one of those posts where I feel really bad about barely saying anything about the garment pictured above, especially because Railcar is a brand I truly admire, but how much can one say about such a rad shirt? I mean, y’all can see it. It’s straight up flames. If the dope pocket game alone isn’t enough to convince you to cop, what the fuck are a few words going to do? Unrelated: do you think it would be possible to release Monster Energy Drink from a crop duster? Asking for a few friends -RB
Images via Cultizm
Holy smokes, this Hobo Travel Bag from Bleu de Chauffe makes me want to abandon my entire life, hop on a passing freight train, and ride the rails for the rest of my days like the noble migrant workers of yore. Of course, very few people (and even fewer actual hobos) can afford to drop 730 USD on a weekender bag, even if it is the most glorious weekender bag of them all: handmade in France out of high quality vegetable-tanned leather, in a colorway deliciously named “Cuba Libre”. A humble bindle stick it is not. Is there not something desperately romantic about becoming a drifter and moving from shanty town to shanty town? I’m trying to not mention the Cleveland Torso Murders, because I’m trying so hard to keep this post light, but whenever I think about old-timey drifters, my mind goes straight to the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run, the serial killer who beheaded and dismembered at least twelve people between 1935 and 1938. Many of the victims were castrated. The killer was never apprehended and never identified. But that was a long time ago and we’re keeping the tone light, so let’s focus on the bag and not a series of horrific murders that even legendary lawman Eliot Ness failed to solve. Okay, light tone, here we go. You know what’s super duper nice? Packing your favorite bag and jetting off for a weekend getaway at a quaint bed and breakfast somewhere in the countryside. Nothing eases the stress of modern life like a couple days of reclaimed wood, vintage wallpaper, and comforting room service. Egg-in-a-hole made with farm fresh eggs and homemade sourdough? Don’t mind if I do. Bonus points if the proprietors are an elderly married couple who refer to themselves as “innkeepers” and their guests as “honey”. Their enduring love is truly an inspiration to us all. Negative points if you happen to wander into the basement and find an antique gynecological examination table equipped with rusted shackles and an old wooden shelf filled with preserved fetuses in moldy Mason jars. I don’t know about you, but I usually take at least one star off of my TripAdvisor review when that happens to me -RB
Images via Idol
They say not all heroes wear capes, dear readers, but some superheroes do indeed wear this Bordeaux Field Cape from Boramy Viguier, because it is the attire of a hard-bodied demi-gawd sent to Earth to save us from the perils of crappy clothing. Never mind the tragic backstory in which a parent or loved one is brutally slain in an incident that proves ironically formational to his character; instead, focus on the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of innocent civilians killed in his latest battle with his archnemesis, who is a dark mirror of him in almost every way. This adventure-ready cape features a drawstring hood and a well-placed patch pocket on the chest, which you can fill with various goodies, including, but not limited to, your wallet, Juul, and a bunch of opioids your doctor prescribed after a chuck of masonry landed on your car, crushing your leg, while you were trying to escape the aforementioned climactic battle. Now you’re cursed with an eerily idiosyncratic limp and an equally idiosyncratic gilded cane. I hope you have a doctorate in either particle physics or biochemistry, because the only ways to solve these problems involve constructing a death ray or developing a supervirus. Oh, and I hope you’re independently wealthy, because the payroll for armies of faceless henchman and the mortgage payments on mountaintop lairs don’t come cheap. You’ll also have to buy a (preferably hairless) cat, ideally a really lazy one, willing to lie in your lap getting stroked all day, watching as the people who displease you drop through trapdoors into pits of concentrated sulphuric acid or tanks full of hungry mako sharks. On a semi-related note, remember that unpleasant five (maybe ten) year period after Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery came out when everyone from television personalities to toll booth operators was referencing the movie? When your middle school science teacher tells a class of ten year olds to “Oh, behave” in his own uniquely horrific attempt at a British accent, you know you’re in for a rough semester. When that same teacher catches you alone in the bathroom and says “Do I make you horny, baby?” you know you’re in serious trouble. Well, enjoy having that creepy image linger in your mind. Stay safe, dear readers -RB
Images via Blue in Green
Prepare to forego rent and/or groceries this month, because this Luigi Coat from Atelier & Repairs is a damn near perfect garment and your closet requires its presence. This flaming hot jawn is made in the good ole US of A, from 100% “regenerated denim”, a combination of 50% Refibra™ (recycled cellulose fibers) and 50% recycled cotton from the Candiani Denim mill, making it sustainable as fuck. Obviously I mean sustainable for the Earth, not sustainable for your wallet, because it costs 625 USD. If you buy this shit, I’m pretty sure Mint.com just emails you the middle finger emoji. Now, if you thought for one second that I could write an entire post about a piece called a “Luigi Coat” and not make some irrelevant references to the Mario Bros. franchise, you don’t know me and you don’t know my blog. Without further ado, here comes the randomness. Although I’ve never tried sucking a bunch of ghosts into a modified household vacuum cleaner, I imagine this coat is what I’d wear if I did. It’s decidedly more lit than blue overalls, a pair of bigass white gloves, and a green sweater. Is it a sweater or sweatshirt? I have no worldly fucking clue. Not that I’m trying to malign the fashion sense of the great Luigi Mario, of course. Does it bother any of you that Luigi and Mario’s surname is actually Mario? That little tidbit was first introduced in the unambiguously awful 1993 live-action film, Super Mario Bros, but even venerable game creator Shigeru Miyamoto has since confirmed it as canon (kind of). Guess I’ll just add that to the ever-growing list of shit that I desperately wish weren’t true, but definitely is, right next to the current occupant of the White House and the fact that carbs are bad for you. Fucking carbs. Carbs are like that one “bad” friend you have as a teen. The one your mom hates because she smokes cigarettes, cuts class, and is a compulsive liar. Yeah, she might introduce you to some interesting indie folk bands and convince you to get a cool new haircut, but you definitely end up with trust issues and a drug problem by the time you go to college. Thanks a lot, Mia. Her name has to be Mia. Apologies to all the Mias out there. You’re not bad people. I know you didn’t mean to do what you did. Plus it’s nice that you’re helping The Mountain Goats get more fans -RB
6/26/2019
PUMA RS-X FD SNEAKERS & THE BITTER CURMUDGEON THAT DWELLS IN THE DEPTHS OF MY BRAIN
Images via Concepts
Hang ten, surfers of the information superhighway! Today we’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming of hyper expensive workwear and jackets that resemble kimonos to drool over these Puma RS-X FDs (available in the extravagantly named Fair Aqua/Ponderosa Pine colorway). Admittedly, I’m not much of a sneaker head, so I don’t really know what to look for in a pair of modern tennis shoes. That I still think of them as “tennis shoes” is likely a dead giveaway that I don’t spend much time skimming sneaker blogs or waiting in line outside of Undefeated for the latest drops. My last sneaker purchase was a pair of Vans SK8-HIs , because I like to dress as though, at the tender age of thirty-one, I might just up and learn kickflips, despite the fact that I haven’t successfully landed a trick (aside from the odd, poorly popped ollie) in upwards of a decade. Although the gentlemen over at Braille Skateboarding might disagree, I think I’m just too old for that shit. Every time I envision myself getting back on a board, in my mind’s ear, I hear the sound of all the tendons in my ankle ripping free from the bone and subsequently conclude that the entire notion is pure folly. When people say “That guy shreds!” I don’t want them to be referring to my ligaments. Indeed, I should probably just cop a pair of these Pumas that look like the floor of an expressionist painter’s studio and cease my fantasies of carving up the streets, before I endure some sort of life-changing injury. I’m sure there’s a joke juxtaposing the paint splatter effect with the urban colloquialism “drip” to be found somewhere in there, but I’m too lazy to go spelunking for that kind of humor today. As much as I strive to be au courant and conversant in the parlance of our times, I’m often overwhelmed by the misanthropic whims of the bitter curmudgeon that dwells in the depths of my brain like a crotchety old homunculus. His real name is Myron Curtis Bailey, but he goes by Jack for reasons I'll never understand. I fully acknowledge that this blog could be used as evidence to have me committed to a psychiatric ward against my will and yet I persist in publishing it. Or maybe Jack’s been publishing it all along. What a fucking plot twist. Take that M. Night -RB
Images via Snake Oil Provisions
What up, brosephs and brosephinas? If these Desperado Short Sleeve Camp Shirts (available in light blue and indigo) from Stevenson Overall Co. aren’t the most fire torso adornments you’ve seen in recent memory, I’ll be downright thunderstruck. Feel free to pop open a new tab and rock out to AC/DC’s timeless hit “Thunderstruck”, if it just got stuck in your head, because I know it just got stuck in mine. These shirts are inspired by 1950s bowling shirts and that speaks to me, as bowling is unironically my favorite sport. I’m a dedicated league bowler, an avid watcher of the PBA, and the proud owner of five bowling balls. My high school Phys. Ed. teacher used to joke that bowling wasn’t a real sport because you could do it with a beer in your hand, but he was a dumbass and a douchebag, so I ignored almost everything he said. Plus, you could play most sports with a beer in your hand; you’d just suck at them. Enough about that useless shitbag -- let’s get back to these shirts. The photos caught my eye when I noticed the ultra-cool dude from Snake Oil Provisions rocking a Seiko SRP 775 on his wrist (I’m currently rocking the same watch upon mine own wrist) and thought “Boy, does that cat have great fucking taste or what?” Then I patted myself on the back for being sartorially simpatico with such a snappy dresser. Once I was done congratulating myself, I resolved to get more tattoos in furtherance of my dream of becoming almost entirely unemployable. If I can’t be employed, then I don’t have to go to work. If I don’t have to go to work, then I’m free to do whatever I want all day. If I’m doing whatever I want all day, I can get really good at bowling. And if I get really good at bowling, I can become a professional bowler and let that sweet, sweet PBA money start flowing in. That’s unimpeachable logic, fam. The pieces fit together so tightly, yo can’t even slide a razor blade between them shits, Pyramids of Giza style. You better bury me with all my bowling balls, because I’m going to be throwing rocks in the afterlife, boi -RB
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